I have a secret etched into my skin, a small, faded starburst birthmark on my left ribcage. It’s barely visible, a whisper of a cosmic event beneath the surface, a constellation of my own. For most of my life, it was just… there. A part of me, but not a significant part. I rarely thought about it, never showed it.Until I met them.My person. My world. They found it one lazy afternoon, their fingers tracing the outline as we lay tangled in sheets, the sunlight making patterns on the wall. They gasped softly, eyes wide with a gentle wonder I’d never seen before. It was like they’d discovered a new galaxy.From that moment on, it became our secret. Our special thing. They called it “my little constellation.”
They would lean in, their breath warm against my skin, and whisper stories into that tiny patch. Stories of wishes made on falling stars, of lovers separated by light-years but forever connected. They’d trace it, not just with a finger, but with the soft tip of their nose, or a butterfly kiss, a ritual so uniquely theirs. It was an unspoken vow, a bond etched not just into my skin, but into the very fabric of my soul. It was a testament to our intimacy, something only we shared, a universe of two.
Then, they were gone.
A older man in a diner | Source: Midjourney
So suddenly. So cruelly. A blink, and the light went out. The world went dark. My universe imploded. The pain was a physical thing, a constant ache that settled deep in my bones, a grief so profound it felt like I was drowning in an ocean of tears that would never dry.
The mark on my ribcage, my little constellation, became a gravestone. A constant, searing reminder of what I had lost, of the unique, beautiful connection that had been severed. I couldn’t bear for anyone else to see it, to even come close to that sacred, wounded space. It was a scar, not just of the body, but of the soul.
A close-up shot of a man’s eye | Source: Midjourney
Years crawled by. A long, arduous journey through the wasteland of grief. Therapy, friends, forced smiles, whispered memories. Slowly, painstakingly, the world began to regain some color. The ache lessened, never truly disappearing, but fading into a dull throb. I learned to breathe again. To live again.
And then, I met someone new. Someone kind. Someone gentle. Someone who understood the shadows I carried, because they too had known loss. They had been part of our wider circle, a mutual acquaintance, but we’d never really connected, not like this. We found solace in each other, a shared understanding of navigating a world that felt both familiar and utterly changed. It was a cautious, tentative hope. A fragile new beginning.
A waitress | Source: Midjourney
Weeks turned into months. The connection deepened, slowly, tenderly. There was a quiet strength in their presence, a comforting warmth. The time came, as it always does, for that first intimate moment. My heart was a nervous flutter. Could I truly open myself up again? Could I let someone else into the sacred spaces, the hidden corners of my being? I felt vulnerable, exposed, both yearning for connection and terrified of desecrating the memory of what I’d lost.
I lay there, bare, hesitant, my body a landscape of memory and fear. Their eyes, soft and reassuring, met mine. Their hand, slow and deliberate, moved across my side. Would they see it? Would they ask? Would they understand the weight it carried? My breath hitched, waiting for the inevitable moment their fingers would brush against that faint, star-shaped outline.
A diner | Source: Midjourney
It happened. Their touch paused. A soft gasp escaped their lips. My stomach plummeted. I braced myself for the questions, for the curiosity, for the sudden shift in the atmosphere that always came when someone discovered that hidden part of me.
But it wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t a question.
They leaned down, their hair brushing my skin. Their lips, soft and warm, brushed against the mark, a familiar shiver going through me, a ghost of a touch I hadn’t felt in years. My mind screamed, NO, this is not possible. This feels… too familiar. Too intimate.
Then, the whisper. Low. Intimate. Heartbreakingly, sickeningly familiar, breathed against my skin with a tenderness that twisted my gut into knots.
A man holding money | Source: Pexels
“My little constellation,” they breathed.
“Still shining.”
The world went silent.
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.
IMPOSSIBLE. My mind reeled. That was our name for it. Our secret. Our private ritual. That exact whisper. That exact touch. It belonged to my lost love. My dead person. HOW?!
They pulled back, a gentle smile on their face, their eyes full of a tenderness that, in that horrifying moment, mirrored my lost love’s so perfectly, it was sickening. Did my love tell them? Was our unique intimacy a public spectacle, shared with their friends? Was our sacred connection just a casual anecdote? The thought was a fresh betrayal, a new wound on top of old grief.
A diner | Source: Midjourney
But then, the full, horrifying implication slowly, brutally dawned. They knew each other, yes. As acquaintances. As friends in a shared circle. But not like this. Not with that level of intimate knowledge. Not the secret words, the specific touch, the whispered stories. This wasn’t a casual observation. This wasn’t something my lost love would have just told someone. This was…
A shared history.
A shared history that I was not a part of.
The pieces clicked into place with a sickening thud. The way they’d always been there, on the periphery. The shared glances I’d dismissed as friendship. The sudden, knowing silence when my lost love mentioned my mark in passing, a detail I’d thought innocent at the time.
A man in a diner | Source: Midjourney
My lost love. My new love. The mark.
It wasn’t a casual secret. It was a lie.
My entire love story, the unique bond I thought I shared, the pure, unadulterated intimacy… it was all a devastating, intricate lie. A secret love triangle, hidden in plain sight, stretching back into my past, beyond the grave, mocking every tear I’d shed, every memory I’d cherished.
The silence in the room was deafening, the air thick with unspoken truths. My heart was a broken drum, pounding a mournful rhythm against my ribs. I looked at them, really looked at them, and saw the betrayal etched into every kind glance, every gentle touch that now felt like a cruel, calculated mockery.
A waitress in a diner | Source: Midjourney
The mark on my skin, once a symbol of unique love, is now a BRAND OF DECEIT. And I carry it, a constant reminder of the day my world didn’t just end once, but twice.
